Wake
by mara-isamoose
Summary: For seventeen year old Sam, getting sucked into other people's dreams is getting old. He can't tell anybody about what he does - they'd never believe him, or worse, they'd think he's a freak. So Sam lives on the fringe, cursed with an ability he doesn't want and can't control. The he falls into a gruesome nightmare, one that chills him to the bone.
1. Six Minutes - Where It Begins

Hi! One time, I read a fanfic of the book Hush, Hush with characters from a show. I decided to do something like this. I own nothing.

This is the story Wake by Lisa McMann re-written with Supernatural characters. Sam is Janie, Lucifer is Cable, Dean is Carrie, Cas is Stu, and so on. Some original characters were left in from the book. I own nothing of _Wake_ or Supernatural. Please enjoy!

 **SIX MINUTES**

December 9, 2005, 12:55 p.m.

Sam Winchester's math book slips from his fingers. He grips the edge of the table in the school library. Everything goes black and silent. He sighs and rests his head on the table. Tries to pull himself out of it, but fails miserably. He's too tired today. Too hungry. He really doesn't have time for this. And then.

 _He's sitting in the bleachers in the football stadium, blinking under the lights, silent among the roars of the crowd._

 _He glances at the people sitting in the bleachers around him -fellow classmates, parents- trying to spot the dreamer. He can tell this dreamer is afraid, but where is he? Then he looks to the football field, finds him, rolls his eyes._

 _It's Ian Drake, no question about it. He is, after all, the only naked player on the field for the homecoming game._

 _Nobody seems to notice or care, except him. The ball is snapped and the lines collide, but Ian is covering himself with his hands, hopping from one foot to the other. Ian's panics increases. Sam's fingers tingle and go numb._

 _Ian looks over to Sam, eyes pleading, as the football moves toward him, a bullet in slow motion. "Help," he says._

 _Sam thinks about helping him. Wonders what it would take to change the course, of Ian's dream. He even considers that a boost of confidence to the star receiver the day before the big game could put Lawrence High in the running for the Regional Class A Championship._

 _But Ian's really a jerk. He won't appreciate it. So he resigns himself to watching the debacle. He wonders if Ian will choose pride or glory._

 _He's not as big as he thinks he is. That's for damn sure._

 _The football nearly reaches Ian when the dream starts over again. 'Oh, get ON with it already!' Sam thinks. He concentrates in his seat on the bleachers and slowly manages to stand. He tries to walk back under the bleachers for the rest of the dream so he doesn't have to watch, and surprisingly, this time, he is able._

 _That's a bonus._

Sam's mind catapults back inside his body, still sitting at his usual remote table in the library. He flexes his fingers painfully, lifts his head and, when his sight returns, he scours the library.

He spies the culprit at a table about fifteen feet away. Ian's awake now. Rubbing his eyes and grinning sheepishly at the two other football players who stand around him, laughing, shoving him, whappig him on the head.

Sam shakes his head to clear it and he lifts up his math book, which sits open and facedown on the table where he dropped it. Under it, he finds a fun-size Snickers bar. He smiles to himself and peers to the left, between rows of bookshelves.

But no one is there for him to thank.

 **WHERE IT BEGINS**

Evening, December 23, 1996

Sam Winchester is eight. He wears a thin, faded red sweatshirt with too-short sleeves, an old pair of jeans that have some tears here and there from the years of use. His shaggy, brown hair stands up with static. He rides on a public bus with his father from their home in Lawrence, Kansas to the other side of town to visit his Uncle Bobby.

His father reads the Globe across from him. There is a picture on the cover of an enormous man wearing a powder-blue tuxedo. Sam rests his head against the window, watching his breath make a cloud on it.

 _The cloud blurs Sam's vision so slowly that he doesn't realize what's happening. He floats in the fog for a moment, and then he is in a large room, sitting at a conference table with five men and three women. At the front of the room is a tall, balding man with a briefcase. He stands in his underwear, giving a presentation, and he is flustered. He tries to speak but he can't get his mouth around the words. The other adults are all wearing crisp suits. They laugh and point at the bald man in his underwear._

 _The bald man looks at Sam._

 _And then he looks at the people laughing at him._

 _He holds his briefcase in front of his privates, and that makes the others laugh harder. He runs to the door of the conference room, but the handle is slippery -something slimy drips from it. He can't get it open; it squeaks and rattles loudly in his hand, and the people at the table double over. The man's underwear is grayish-white, sagging. He turns to Sam again, with a look of panic and pleading._

 _Sam doesn't know what to do._

 _He freezes._

 _The bus' breaks whine._

 _And the scene grows cloudy and is lost in fog._

"Sam!" Sam's father is leaning towards Sam. His breath smells like gin, and his straggly hair falls in his face. "Sam, I said, maybe Uncle Bobby will take you that big fancy toy train store. I thought you would be excited about that, but I guess not." Sam's father sips from a flask in his ratty old jacket pocket.

Sam focuses on his father and smiles. "That sounds fun," he says, even though he doesn't like trains. He would rather have new clothes. He wriggles on the seat, trying to adjust his pants to cover his ankles. He thinks about the bald man and scrunches his eyes.

Weird.

When the bus stops, they step into the aisle. In front of Sam's father, a disheveled, bald businessman emerges from his seat.

He wipes his face with a handkerchief.

Sam stares at him. His jaw drops. "Woah," he whispers.

The man gives him a bland look when he catches Sam staring, and turns to exit the bus.

September 6, 1999, 3:05 p.m.

Sam sprints to catch the bus after his first day of sixth grade. Brady Thompson, on of the Lawrence North Side boys, sticks his foot out, sending Sam sprawling across the gravel. Brady laughs all the way to his mother's shiny red Jeep Cherokee. Sam fights back the urge to cry, and dusts himself off. He climbs on the bus, flops into the front seat, and looks at the dirt and blood on the palms of his hands, and the rip in the knee of his already well-worn pants.

Sixth grade makes his throat hurt.

He leans his head against the window.

When he gets home, Sam walks past his father, who is on the couch watching _ESPN_ and drinking from a clear glass bottle. Sam washes his stinging hands carefully, dries them, and sits down next to his father, hoping he'll notice. Hoping he'll say something.

But Sam's father is asleep now.

His mouth is open.

He snores lightly.

The bottle tips in his hand.

Sam sighs, sets the bottle on the beat-up coffee table, and starts his homework.

Halfway through his math homework, the room turns black.

 _Sam is rushed into a bright tunnel, like a multicolored kaleidoscope. There's no floor, and Sam is floating while the walls spin around him. It makes him feel like throwing up._

 _Next to Sam in the tunnel is his father, and a woman that looks like a blonde Saint Mary. The woman and Sam's father are holding hands and flying. They look happy. Sam yells, but no sound comes out. He wants it to stop._

 _He feels the pencil fall from his fingers._

 _Feels his body slump to the arm of the couch._

 _Tries to sit up, but with all the whirling colors around him, he can't tell which way is upright. He overcompensates and falls the other way, onto his father._

 _The colors stop, and everything goes black. Sam hears his father grumbling, feels him shove._

Slowly the room comes into focus again, and Sam's father slaps Sam in the face.

"Get offa me," his father says. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

Sam sits up and looks at his father. His stomach churns, ad he feels dizzy from the colors. "I feel sick," he whispers, and then he stands up and stumbles to the bathroom to vomit.

When he peers out, pale and shaky, his father is gone from the couch, retired to his bedroom.

'Thank god', Sam thinks. He splashes cold water on his face.

January 1, 2001, 7:29 a.m.

A U-Haul truck pulls up next door. A man, a woman, and a boy Sam's age climb out and sink into the snow-covered driveway. Sam watches them from his bedroom window.

The boy is light-haired and good-looking.

Sam wonders if he'll be snooty, like all the other boys who call Sam white trash at school. Maybe, since this new boy lives next to Sam on the wrong side of town, they'll call him white trash too. But he's really good-looking. Good-looking enough to make a difference.

Sam dresses hurriedly, puts on his boots and coat, and marches next door to have the first chance to get to the boy before the North Siders get to him. Sam's desperate for a friend.

"You guys want some help?" Sam asks in a voice more confident than he feels.

The boy stops in his tracks. A smile deepens the dimples in his cheeks, and he tilts his head to the side. "Hi," he says. "I'm Dean Smith."

Dean's green eyes sparkle.

Sam's heart leaps.

March 2, 2001, 7:34 p.m.

Sam is thirteen.

He doesn't have a sleeping bag, but Dean has an extra that Sam can use. Sam sets his plastic grocery bag on the floor by the couch in Dean's living room.

Inside the bag:

a hand-made birthday gift for Dean

Sam's pajamas

a toothbrush

He's nervous. But Dean is chattering enough for both of them, waiting for Dean's other new friend, Brady Thompson, to show up.

Yes, that Brady Thompson. Of the Lawrence North Side Thompson's.

Apparently, Brady Thompson is also the president of the "Make Sam Winchester Miserable" Club. Sam wipes his sweating hands on his jeans.

When Brady arrives, Dean doesn't fawn over him. Sam nods hello.

Brady smirks. Tries to whisper something to Dean, but Dean ignores him and says, "Hey! Let's go play a game!"

Brady throws a daggered look at Dean.

Dean smiles brightly at Sam, asking him with his eyes if it's okay.

Sam squelches a grin, and Brady shrugs and pretends like he doesn't mind after all.

Even though Sam knows it's killing him.

The three boys slowly grow more comfortable, or maybe just resigned, with one another. They grab some snacks and watch one of Dean's favorite videos of old comedians, some of whom Sam's never heard of before. And then they play truth or dare.

Dean alternates: truth, dare, truth, dare.

Brady always picks truth.

And then there's Sam.

Sam never picks truth.

He's a dare boy.

That way, nobody gets inside.

They might find out about his secret.

The giggles become hysterics when Brady's dare for Sam is to run outside through the snow barefoot, around to the backyard, take off his clothes, and make a naked snow angel.

Sam doesn't have a problem doing that.

Because, really, what does he have to lose?

He'll take that dare over giving up his secrets any day.

Brady watches Sam, arms folded in the cold night air, and with a sneer on his face, while Dean giggles and helps Sam get his sweatshirt and jeans back on over his wet body. Dean takes Sam's underwear, makes a snowball and places it in the waistband, and slingshots it at Brady.

"Ew, gross," Brady sneers. "Where'd you get those old grungy things, Salvation Army?" Sam's giggles fade. He grabs his underwear back from Dean and shoves them in his jeans pocket, embarrassed. "No," he says hotly, then giggles again. "It was Goodwill. Why, do they look familiar?"

Dean snorts.

Even Brady laughs, reluctantly.

They trudge back inside for popcorn.

11:34 p.m.

The noise level in the living room of Dean's house fades along with the lights after Mr. Smith, Dean's father, stomps to the doorway and hollers at the three boys to shut up and get to sleep.

Sam zips up the musty-smelling sleeping bag and closes his eyes, but he's too hyper to sleep after that exhilarating naked snow angel. He had a fun evening despite Brady. He learned what it's like to be a rich kid (sounds nice for about a day, but too many stinking lessons), and that Michael Jeffers is supposedly the hottest boy in the class (in Dean's mind), and what people like Brady do four times a year (they take vacations to exotic places). Who knew?

Now the hushed giggles subside around him, and Sam opens his eyes to stare at the dark ceiling. He is glad to be here, even though Brady teases him about his clothes. Brady even had the nerve to ask Sam why he never wears anything new. But Dean shut him up with a sudden exclamation: "Sam, you look simply stunning with your hair back like that. Doesn't he, Brady?"

He has to pee, but he is afraid to get up, in case Dean's father hears him and starts yelling again. He rests quietly like the other boys, listening to them breathe as they drift off to sleep. Brady is in the middle, curled on his side facing Dean, his back to Sam.

12:14 a.m.

 _The ceiling clouds over and disappears. Sam blinks and he is at school, in civics class. He looks around and realizes he is not in his normal fourth-period class, but in the class that follows his. He stands at the back of the room. There are no empty seats. Ms. Parchelli, the teacher, drones on about the judicial branch of government and what the Supreme Court wears under their robes. No on seems surprised that Ms. Parchelli is teaching them this. Some of the kids take notes._

 _Sam looks around at the faces in the room. In the third row, seated at the center desk, is Brady. Brady has a dreamy look on his face. He is staring at someone in the next row, one seat forward. As the teacher talks, Brady stands up slowly and approaches the person he's been staring at. From the back of the room, Sam can't see who it is._

 _The teacher doesn't appear to notice. Brady kneels next to the desk and touches the person's hand. In slow motion, the person turns to Brady, touches his cheek, and then leans forward. The two of them kiss. After a moment, they both rise to their feet, still kissing. When they part, Sam can see the face of Brady's kissing partner. Brady leads his partner by the hand to the front of the room and opens the door of the supply closet. The bell rings, and like ants, the students crowd at the door to leave._

The ceiling in Dean Smith's living room reappears as Brady sighs and flops onto his stomach in the sleeping bag next to Sam. ' _Cripes!_ '

thinks Sam. He looks at the clock. It's 1:23 a.m.

1:24 a.m.

 _Sam rolls to his side and he's walking into a forest. It's dark from shade, not night. A few rays of weak sunlight slip through the tree cover. Walking in front of Sam is Dean. They walk for what seems to be a mile or more, and suddenly a rushing river appears a few steps in front of them. Dean stops and cups his ear, listening for something. He calls out in a desperate voice, "Jo!" Over and over, Dean calls the name, until the forest rings with his voice. Dean walks along the high bank and stumbles over a tree root. Sam bumps into him, falls, and then Dean helps him up. He gives Sam a puzzled look and says, "You've never been here." Dean turns back to his search for Jo, his cries growing louder._

 _There is a splash in the river, and a little girl appears above the surface, bobbing and moving swiftly in the current. Dean runs along the bank and cries, "Jo! Get out of there! Jo!"_

 _The girl grins and chokes on the water. She goes under and resurfaces. Dean is frantic. He reaches out his hand to the girl, but it makes no difference - the bank is too high, the river too wide for him to come close to reaching her. He is crying now._

 _Sam watches, his heart pounding. The girl is still grinning and choking, falling under the water. She is drowning._

 _"Help her!" screams Dean. "Save her!"_

 _Sam leaps toward the girl in the water, but he lands on the bank in the same spot he took off from. He tries again as Dean screams, but the results are the same._

 _The girl's eyes are closed now. Her grin has turned eerie. From the water behind the girl, an enormous shark bursts above the surface, mouth open, hundreds of sharp teeth gleaming. It closes its mouth around the girl and disappears._

Dean sits up in his sleeping bag and screams.

Sam screams too, but it catches in his throat.

His voice is hoarse.

His fingers are numb.

His body shakes from the nightmare.

The two boys look at each other in the darkness, while Brady stirs, groans, and goes back to sleep. "Are you okay?" Sam whispers, sitting up.

Dean nods, breathing hard. He whisper-laughs, embarrassed. His voice shakes. "I'm sorry I woke you. Bad dream."

Sam hesitates. "You want to talk about it?" His mind is racing.

"Nah. Go back to sleep." Dean rolls to his side. Brady stirs, rolls a few inches closer to Dean, and is quiet again.

Sam glances at the clock. 3:42 a.m. He is exhausted. He drifts off to sleep...

3:51 a.m.

 _...he is jolted awake when he falls into a huge, beautiful bedroom. There are framed posters of Green Day and Linkin Park on the walls. At a desk sits Brady, doodling on the edge of his notebook. Sam tries to blink himself out of the room. He feels himself sit up in the sleeping bag, but his motions don't affect what he sees. He lies back down, resigned to watch._

 _Brady is drawing hearts. Sam walks toward him. He says, "Brady," but no sound comes out. When someone knocks on the bedroom window, Brady looks over and smiles. "Help me open this window, will you?"_

 _Sam stares at Brady. Brady stares back, then points to the window with a jerk of his head. Sam, feeling compelled, stumbles over to the window next to Brady and they open it. Dean climbs in._

 _He is naked from the waist down._

 _And has the dick the size of two-liter bottle._

 _It sways from side to side when Dean scrambles over the sill._

 _He walks through Sam and stands shyly in front of Brady._

 _Sam tries to turn away, but he can't. He waves a hand in front of Dean's face, but Dean doesn't respond. Brady winks at Sam and folds Dean into his arms. They embrace and kiss. Sam rolls his eyes, and suddenly all three are back in Ms. Parchelli's civics classroom. Once again, Brady is embracing someone in the aisle. It's Dean. He leads Dean to the front of the room. Sam can see that no one else in the class gives an ounce of notice to the naked Dean and his enormous dick._

Sam sits up in his sleeping bag again and shakes his head wildly. He feels the ends of his hair slap the sides of his cheeks, but he is unable to remove himself from the classroom. He is forced not only to

be there, but also to watch.

 _Brady glides to the supply closet and leads Dean in there with him._

 _Sam, against his wishes, follows.  
_

 _Brady closes the door once Dean and Sam are inside, and Brady starts kissing Dean on the lips again._

 _Sam lunges in his sleeping bag blindly._

 _Kicks Brady, hard._

And Sam is back in Dean's living room.

Brady sits up, hair disheveled, and scrambles around to look at Sam. "What the hell did you do that for?" Brady is furious.

Feigning sleep, Sam peers out of one eye. "Sorry," he mumbles. "There was a spider crawling over your sleeping bag. I saved your life."

"What?!"

"Never mind, he's gone."

"Oh, great, Like I'm gonna get back to sleep now."

Sam grins in the darkness. It's 5:51 a.m.

7:45 a.m.

Something nudges Sam's legs. He opens his eyes, wondering where he is. It's pitch dark. Dean turns the sleeping bag flap off of Sam's head. "Wake up, sleepyhead." The sunlight is blinding.

"Mmph," Sam grunts. Slowly he sits up.

Dean is balancing on his haunches, eyeing him, one brow raised.

Sam remembers. Does Dean?

"Did you sleep well?" Dean asks.

Sam's stomach twists. "Um... yeah." He gauges Dean's reaction. "Did you?"

Dean smiles. "Like a baby. Even on this hard floor."

"Ah, hmm. Well, that's great." Sam scrambles to his feet and pulls his shirt down. "Where's Brady?"

"He left about ten minutes ago. He was acting weird. Said he forgot he had a piano lesson at eight." Dean snorts. "Duh."

Sam laughs weakly. He's starving. The two boys fix breakfast. Dean doesn't appear to remember his nightmare.

Sam can't forget it.

As they munch on toast, Sam steals a glance at Dean's waist. There's nothing jumping out at him.

Sam goes home, falls into bed, thinking about the strange night. Wondering if this ever happens to anyone else. Knowing, deep down, it probably doesn't.

He falls into a hard sleep until late afternoon. Decides sleepovers are not for him. They'll never be for him.

June 7, 2004

Sam is sixteen. He buys his own clothing now. Often he buys food, too. The welfare check covers the rent and the booze, and not much else.

Two years ago, Sam started working a few hours after school and on the weekends at Heather Nursing Home. Now he works full-time for the summer.

The office staff and other aides at Heather Home like Sam, especially during school holidays, because he'll pick up anybody's shifts, day or night, so they can take a last-minute sick day or vacation. Sam needs the money, and they know it.

He's determined to go to college.

Five days a week or more, Sam puts on his hospital scrubs and takes abus to the nursing home. He likes old people. They don't sleep soundly.

Sam and Dean are still friends and next-door neighbors. They spend a lot of time at Sam's house, waiting for Sam's father to pass out in his bedroom before they watch movies and talk about boys. They talk about other things too, like why Dean's father is so angry all the time, and why Dean's mother doesn't like company. Mostly, Sam thinks, it's because they're grouchy people. Plain and simple. Whenever Dean asks if he can have Sam sleep over, his mother says, "You just had a

sleepover on your birthday." Dean doesn't bother to remind her that that was four years ago.

Sam thinks about Jo and wonders if Dean really was an only child. But Dean doesn't seem to talk about anything with sharp edges. Maybe he's afraid they might poke into him and then he'd burst.

Dean and Brady are also still friends. Brady's parents are still rich. Brady plays tennis. He's a football player. His parents have condos in Vegas, Marco Island, Vail, and somewhere in Greece. Brady mostly hangs out with other rich kids. And then there's Dean.

Sam doesn't mind being with Brady. Brady still can't stand Sam. Sam thinks he knows the real reason why, and it has nothing to do with having money.

June 25, 2004, 11:15 p.m.

After working a record eleven evenings straight, and being caught by old Mr. Reed's recurring nightmare about World War II seven of those eleven evenings, Sam collapses on the couch and kicks his shoes off. By the number of empty bottles on the ring-stained coffee table, he assumes his father is in his bedroom, down for the count.

Dean lets himself in. "Can I crash here?" His eyes are rimmed in red.

Sam sighs inwardly. He wants to sleep. "'Course. You okay with the couch?"

"Sure. Thanks."

Sam relaxes. Dean, on the couch, would work fine.

Dean sniffles loudly.

"So, what's wrong?" Sam asks, trying to put as much sympathy in his voice as he can muster. It's enough.

"Dad's yelling again. I got asked out. Dad says no."

Sam perks up. "Who asked you out?"

"Cas. From the body shop."

"You mean that old guy?"

Dean bristles. "He's twenty-two."

"You're sixteen! And he looks older than that."

"Not up close. He's cute. He has a cute ass."

"Maybe he plays Dance Dance Revolution at the arcade."

Dean giggles. Sam smiles.

"So. You got any liquor around here?" Dean asks innocently.

Sam laughs. "There's an understatement. Whaddya want, beer?" He looks at the bottles on the table. "Schnapps? Whiskey? Double-stuff vodka?"

"Got any of that cheap grape wine that the winos at Selby Park drink?"

"At your service." Sam hauls himself off the couch and looks for clean glasses. The kitchen is a mess. Sam has barely been here the past two weeks. He finds two sticky, mismatched glasses in the sink and washes them out, then searches through his father's stash for his cheap wine assortment. "Ah, here it is. Boone's Farm, right?" He unscrews the bottle and pours two glasses full, not waiting for an answer from Dean, and then puts the bottle back in the fridge.

Dean flips on the TV. He takes a glass from Sam. "Thanks."

Sam sips the sweet wine and makes a face. "So what are you gonna do about Cas?" He thinks there's a country song in that sentence somewhere.

"Go out with him."

"Your dad's gonna kill you if he finds out."

"Yeah, well. What else is new?" They both settle on the creaky couch and put their feet on the coffee table, deftly pushing the mess of bottles to the center of it so they can stretch out.

The TV drones. The boys sip their wine and get silly. Sam gets up, rummages around in his bedroom, and returns with snacks.

"Gross - you keep Doritos in your bedroom?"

"Emergency stash. For nights such as these." ' _Since father can't be bothered to but actual food at the grocery store when he goes there for booze,_ ' Sam thinks.

"Ahh." Dean nods.

12:30 a.m.

Sam is asleep on the couch. He doesn't dream. Never dreams.

5:02 a.m.

Sam, forced awake, catapults into Dean's dream. It's the one by the river. Again. Sam's been here twice since the first time, when they were thirteen.

Sam, blind to the room his physical body is in, tries to stand. If he can feel his way to his bedroom and close the door before he starts going numb, he might get enough distance to break the connection. He feels with his toes for the bottles on the floor, and goes around them. He reaches out for the wall and finds his way into the hallway as he and Dean are walking through the forest in Dean's dream. Sam

regard for the door frames - first his fathers bedroom (hush, don't bump the door), then the bathroom, and then his room. He makes it inside, turns, and closes the door just as Dean and Sam approach the

riverbank.

The connection is lost.

Sam breathes a sigh of relief. He looks around, blinks in the dark as his eyesight returns, crawls into bed, and sleeps.

9:06 a.m.

When he wakes, both his father and dean are in the kitchen. The living room is cleared of bottles. Dean is drying a sink fill of dishes, and Sam's father is fixing his homemade morning drink: vodka and orange juice on ice. On the stove is a skillet covered by a paper plate. Two pieces of buttered toast, two eggs over easy, and a small fortune of crisp bacon rest on a second paper plate, next to the skillet. Sam's

father picks up a piece of bacon, takes his drink, and disappears back into his bedroom without a word.

"Thanks Dean - you didn't have to do this. I was planning on cleaning today."

Dean is cheerful. "It's the least I can do. Did you sleep well? When did you go to bed?"

Sam peeks in the skillet, thinking, discovering hash browns. "Wow! Um... not long ago. It was close to daylight. But I was so tired."

"You've been working ridiculous hours."

Sam. "Yeah, well. College. One day. How did you sleep?"

"Pretty good..." He hesitates, like he might say something else, but doesn't.

Sam takes a bite of food. He's famished. "Did you have sweet dreams?"

Dean glances at Sam, then picks up another dish and wipes it with the towel. "Not really."

Sam concentrates on the food, but his stomach flips. He waits, until the silence grows awkward. "You want to talk about it?"

Dean is silent for a long time. "Not really. No," he says finally.


	2. And Picks Up Speed

**AND PICKS UP SPEED**

August 30, 2004

It is the first day of school. Sam and Dean are juniors. They wait for the bus on the corner of their street. A handful of other high school kids stand with them. Some are anxious. Some are terribly short. Sam and Dean ignore the freshmen.

The bus is late. Luckily for Lucifer Angelus, the bus is later than he is. Sam and Dean know Lucifer - he's been trouble in school since ninth grade. Sam doesn't remember him much before that - word was that he flunked down into their grade. He was often late. Always looked stoned. Now, he looks about six inches taller than he did in the spring. His dirty-blond hair hangs slightly in front of his eyes, and

he walks with his shoulders curved, as if he were more comfortable being short. He stands away from everyone and smokes a cigarette.

Sam catches his eye by accident, so he nods hello. Lucifer looks down at the ground quickly. Blows smoke from his lips. Tosses the cigarette down and grinds it into the gravel.

Dean pokes Sam in the ribs. "Lookie, it's your boyfriend."

Sam rolls his eyes. "Be nice."

Dean observes Lucifer carefully while he's not looking. "Well. His pox-face cleared up over the summer. Or maybe the fancy 'do hides it."

"Stop," hisses Sam. He's giggling, and feeling bad about it. But he's looking at Lucifer. He's got to be about as dirt poor as Sam, judging by his clothes. "He's just a loner. And quiet."

"A stoner, maybe, who has a boner for you."

Sam narrows his eyes, and his face grows sober. "Dean, stop it. I'm serious. You're turning mean like Brady." Sam glances at Lucifer. His jeans are too short. Sam knows what it's like to be teased for not

having cool clothes and stuff. He feels himself wanting to defend Lucifer. "He probably has shitty welfare parents, like me."

Dean is quiet. "I'm not like Brady."

"So why do you hang with him?"

He shrugs and thinks about it for a minute. "I dunno. 'Cause he's rich."

Finally the bus comes. The ride is forty-five minutes to school, even though the school is less than five miles away, because of all the stops. Juniors like Sam and Dean are considered by the unwritten bus rules to be upperclassmen. So they sit near the back. Lucifer passes by and falls into the seat behind them. Sam can feel him push his knees up against Sam's back. Sam peers through the crack between his seat back and the window. Lucifer's chin is propped up by his hand. His eyes are closed, nearly hidden beneath his bangs.

"Fuck," Sam mutters under his breath.

Thankfully, Lucifer Angelus doesn't dream.

Not on the bus, anyway.

Not in chemistry class, either.

Or English.

Nor does anyone else. Sam arrives home after the first day of school, relieved.

October 16, 2004, 7:42 p.m.

Dean and Cas knock on Sam's bedroom window. He opens it a crack. Cas is dressed up, wearing a thin, black leather tie, and Dean is wearing a rumpled black suit as well. It has a hideously large orchid pinned to it.

"I saw your light on in here," explains Dean, regarding the unusual visit. "Come to the homecoming dance, with us, Sammy! We're not staying long. Please?"

Sam sighs. "You know I don't have anything to wear."

Dean holds up a light gray suit so Sam can see it. "Here - I bet this'll fit you. I got it from Brady. He'll die if he sees you in it instead of me. And I've got some shoes you can borrow." Dean grins

evilly. 

"I haven't washed my hair or anything."

"You look fine, Sam," Cas says. "Come on. Don't make me sit there with a bunch of teenybopper airheads all night. Have pity on an old man."

Sam smirks. Dean slaps Cas on the arm.

He meets them at the front door, takes the suit, and heads over to Dean's ten minutes later.

9:12 p.m.

Sam drinks his third cup of punch while Cas and Dean dance for the billionth time. He sits down at a table, alone.

9:18 p.m.

A sophomore boy, known only to Sam as "the brainiac," asks Sam to dance.

He regards him for a moment. "Why the fuck not," he says. Sam is a head taller than him. 

He rests his head on Sam's chest and grabs his ass.

Sam pushes him off, muttering under his breath, finds Dean, and tells him that he found a ride home and he's leaving now.

Dean waves blissfully from Cas' arms.

Sam attacks the back door of the school gym and finds himself in a heavy cloud of smoke. He realizes he's found the Goths' hang out. Who knew?

"Oof," someone says. He keeps walking, muttering "sorry" to whomever it was he hit with the flying door.

After a mile wearing Dean's too-small loaner shoes, his feet are killing him. He takes off the shoes and walks in the grassy yards, watching the houses evolve from nice to nasty as he goes along. The grass is already wet with dew, and the yards are getting messier. His feet are freezing.

Someone falls in step beside him, so quietly that Sam doesn't notice him until he's there. He's carrying a skateboard. A second and third follow suit, then lay their boards down and push off, hanging slightly in front of Sam.

"Jeez!" He says, surrounded. "Scare a guy half to death, why don't you."

Lucifer Angelus shrugs. The other guys move ahead. "Long walk," says Lucifer. "You, uh"- he clears his throat -"okay?"

"Fine," Sam says. "You?" He doesn't remember ever hearing Lucifer speak before.

"Get on." Lucifer sets the board down, taking Sam's shows from his hand. "You'll rip your feet to shreds. There's glass an' shit."

Sam looks at the board, and then up at him. He's wearing a knit beanie with a hole in it. "I don't know how."

Lucifer flashes a half grin. Shoves a strand of dirty-blond hair under the beanie. "Just stand. Bend. Balance. I'll push you."

Sam blinks. Gets on the board.

Weird.

This is not happening.

They don't talk.

The guys weave in and out the rest of the way, and take off at the corner by Sam's house. Lucifer pushes him to his front porch so he can hop off. He sets Sam's shoes on the step, picks up the board, nods, and catches up with his friends.

"Thanks, Lucifer," Sam says, but he's gone in the dark already. "That was sweet," he adds, to no one.

They don't acknowledge each other, or the event, for a very long time.


	3. In Earnest

**IN EARNEST**

February 1, 2005

Sam is seventeen.

A boy named Jack Tomlinson falls asleep in English class. Sam watches his head nodding from across the room. Sam begins to sweat, even though the room is cold. It is 11:41 a.m. Seven minutes until the bell rings for lunch. Too much time.

He stands, gathers his books, and rushes for the door. "I feel sick," he says to the teacher. The teacher nods understandingly. Brady Thompson snickers from the back row. Sam leaves the room and shuts the

door.

He leans against the cool tile wall, takes a deep breath, goes into the boys' bathroom, and hides in a stall. Nobody ever sleeps in the bathroom.

Flashback - January 9, 1998

 _It's Sam's tenth birthday. Tanya Weersma falls asleep in school, her head on her pencil box. She is floating, gliding. And then she is falling. Falling into a gorge. The face of a cliff streams by at a dizzying speed. Tanya looks at Sam and screams. Sam closes his eyes and feels sick. They startle at the same time. The fourth graders all laugh._

 _Sam decides not to hand out his precious birthday treat, after all._

That was after the bus ride and the man in the underwear. Sam's had only a few close calls in school before high school. But the older he gets, the more often his classmates sleep in school. And the more kids sleep, the more of a mess it makes for Sam. He has to get away, wake them up, or risk the consequences.

A year and a half to go.

And then.

College. A roommate.

Sam puts his head in his hands.

He leaves the bathroom after lunch and goes to his next class, grabbing a Snickers bar on his way.

For two weeks afterward, Brady Thompson and his rich friends make puking noises when they pass Sam in the hall.

June 15, 2005

Sam is seventeen. He's working his ass off, taking as many shifts as he can.

Old Mr. Reed is dying at the nursing home.

His dreams grow constant and terrible.

He doesn't wake easily.

As his body fades, the pull of his dreams grows eerily stronger. Now, if his door is open, Sam can't enter that wing.

He hadn't planned for this.

He makes an odd request on every shift. "If you cover the east wing, I'll take the rest."

The other aides think he's afraid to see Mr. Reeds die.

Sam doesn't have a problem with that.

June 21, 2005 9:39 p.m.

Heather Home is short-staffed. It's summer. Three patients on the cusp of death. Two have Alzheimer's. One dreams, screams, and cries.

Someone has to empty bedpans. Hand out the night meds. Straighten up for the day.

Sam approaches with caution. He stands in the west wing, looking into the east wing, and memorizes it. The right-hand wall has five doorways and six sets of handrails. The last door on the right is Mr. Reed. Ten steps farther is a wall, and the emergency exit door.

Some days, a cart stands between doorways three and four. Some days, wheelchairs collect anonymously between doorways one and two. A stretcher often rests in the east wing, but usually it's on the left side. Sam would have to get a glimpse before entering the hallway, no matter the day. Because some days, most days, people travel up and down the hallway without pattern. And Sam doesn't want to run into anyone in case he goes blind.

Tonight, the hallway is clear. Sam noted earlier that the Silva family came for a visit in the fourth room. He checks the record book and sees that they signed out. There are no other visitors recorded. It grows late. For Sam, it's either get the work done, or get fired.

He enters the east wing, grabs the hall bar, and nearly doubles over.

9:41 p.m.

 _The noise of battle is overpowering. He hides with old Mr. Reed in a foxhole on a beach that is littered with bodies and watered with blood. The scene is so familiar, Sam could recite the conversation - even the beat of the bullets - by heart. And it always ends the same way, with arms and legs scattered, bones crunching underfoot, and Mr. Reed's body breaking into tiny bits, crumbling off his trunk like cheese being grated from a slab, or like a leper, unraveling._

 _Sam tries walking normally down the hallway, gripping the handrail. He cannot concentrate enough to remember his count of doorways, the dream is so intense. He keeps walking, reaching, walking, until he hits the wall. He's losing the feeling in his fingers and feet. Wants to make it stop. He backs up eight, maybe ten, maybe twelve steps, and falls to the ground outside Mr. Reed's door. His head pounds now as he follows Mr. Reed into battle._

 _He tries to find the door so he can close it. He tries, and he can't feel anything. He doesn't know if he's touching something, or nothing._

 _He is paralyzed. Numb. Desperate._

 _On the bloody beach, Mr. Reed looks at him and beckons Sam to come with him. "Behind here. We'll be safe behind here," he says. "No!" Sam tries to scream, but no sound comes out. He can't get his attention. '_ Not behind there! _' He knows what will happen._

 _Mr. Reed's fingers drop off first._

 _Then his nose and ears._

 _He looks at Sam._

 _Like always._

 _Like Sam has betrayed him._

 _"Why didn't you tell me," he whispers._

 _Sam can't speak, can't move. Again and again, he fights, his head feeling like it might explode any moment. '_ Just die, old man! _' he wants to yell. '_ I can't do this one anymore! _' He knows it's almost over._

 _And then, there is more. Something new._

 _Mr. Reed turns to Sam as his feet break free from his ankles and he stumbles on his stilty legs. His eyes are wide with terror, and the battle rages around them. "Come closer," he says. Fingerless, he shrugs the gun into Sam's arms. His arm breaks off his shoulder as he does it, and it crumbles to the beach like powder. And then he starts crying. "Help me. Help me, Sam."_

 _Sam's eyes widen. He sees the enemy, but he knows they can't see him._

 _He is safe. He looks at the pleading eyes of Mr. Reed._

 _Lifts the gun._

 _Points._

 _And pulls the trigger._

10:59 p.m.

Sam is curled on a portable stretcher in the east hallway when the roaring gunfire in old Mr. Reed's dream stops abruptly. He blinks, his vision clears slowly, and he sees two Heather Home aides staring down at him. He sits up halfway. His head pounds.

"Careful, Sam, honey," soothes a voice. "You were having a seizure or something. Let's wait for the doc, okay?"

Sam cocks his head and listens for the faint sound of beeping. A moment later, he hears it.

"Old Mr. Reed is dead," he says, his voice rasping, He falls back on the stretcher and passes out.

June 22, 2005

The doctor says, "We need to do some tests. Do a CAT scan."

"No thank you," Sam says. He is polite, but firm.

The doctor looks at Sam's father. "Mr. Winchester?"

Sam's father shrugs. He looks out the window. His hands tremble as he fingers the zipper on his pocket.

The doctor sighs, exasperated. "Sir," he tries again. "What if he has a seizure while he's driving? Or crossing a street? Please think about it."

Mr. Winchester closes his eyes.

Sam clears his throat. "May we go?"

The doctor gives Sam a long look. He glances at Sam's father, who is looking down at his lap. Then looks at Sam again. "Of course," he says softly. "Can you promise me something? Not just for your safety, but for the safety of others on the road - please, don't drive."

 _'It won't happen when I'm driving_ ,' Sam longs to tell him, just so he doesn't worry so much. "Sure, I promise. We don't have a car, anyway."

Mr. Winchester stands. Sam stands. The doctor stands too. "Call our office if it happens again, won't you?" He holds out his hand and Sam shakes it.

"Yes," Sam lies. They walk back to the waiting room. Sam sends his father outside to the bus stop. "I'll be right there."

His father leaves the office. Sam pays the bill. It's $120, pulled out of his college stash. He can only imagine how much a CAT scan would cost. And he's not about to spend another cent just to hear somebody tell him he's crazy.

He can get that opinion for free.

Sam waits for his father to ask what that was about. But he may as well wait for flowers to grow on the moon. Sam's father simply doesn't care about anything that has to do with Sam. He has never really cared.

And that's fucking sad.

That's what Sam thinks.

But it sure comes in handy, sometimes.

June 28, 2005

There's something about a doctor telling a teenager not to drive that makes it so important to do so. Just to prove him wrong.

Sam and Dean go see Cas at the body shop. He sees them coming. "Here she is, kiddo." Cas says. He calls Sam "kiddo," which is weird, since Sam is two inches taller than he is.

Sam nods and smiles. He runs his hand over the hood lightly, feeling the curves. It's pitch-black. It's older than Sam. And it's beautiful.

Cas hands Sam the keys, and Sam counts out one thousand, four hundred fifty dollars cash. "Be good to her," Cas says wistfully. "I started working on this car when I was thirteen. She purrs now."

"I will." Sam smiles. He climbs in the '67 Impala and starts her up.

"Her name's Baby. I-I call her Baby," adds Cas. He looks a little embarrassed.

Dean takes Cas' oil-stained hand and squeezes it. "Sam's a really good driver. He's driven my car a bunch of times. Baby will be fine." He gives Cas a quick kiss on the cheek. "See you tonight," he says with a demure smile.

Cas winks. Dean gets into his Tracer and Sam slides behind the wheel of his new car. He pats the dashboard, and Baby purrs. "Good girl, Baby." he croons.

June 29, 2005

After the incident with Mr. Reed, the Heather Home director made Sam take a week off. When Sam shuffled and hemmed about taking that much time off, the director promised shifts on July 4 and Labor Day, where Sam gets double pay. He is happy.

Sam drives his new car on his first day back to work. He gives sponge baths and empties a dozen bedpans. For entertainment, he sings a mournful song from _Les Miserables_ , changing the words to "Empty pans and empty bladders..." Miss Stubin, a schoolteacher who taught for forty-seven years before she retired, laughs for the first time in weeks. Sam makes a mental note to bring in a new book to read to Miss Stubin.

Miss Stubin never has visitors.

And she's blind.

That just might be why she's Sam's favorite.

July 4, 2005, 10:15 p.m.

Three Heather Home residents in their wheelchairs, and Sam, in an orange plastic bucket chair, sit in the dark nursing home parking lot. Waiting. Slapping mosquitoes. The fireworks are about to begin at Selby Park, a few blocks away.

Miss Stubin is one of the residents, her gnarled hands curled in lap, I.V. drip hanging from a stand next to her wheelchair. All of a sudden, she cocks her head and smiles wistfully. "Here they come," she says.

A moment later, the sky explodes in color. Sam describes each one in detail to Miss Stubin.

A green sparkly porcupine, he says.

Sparks raising from a magician's wand.

A perfect circle of white light, which fades into a puddle and dries up.

After a brilliant burst of purple, Sam jumps up. "Don't go anywhere,

you three - I'll be right back." He runs inside to the therapy room, grabs a plastic tub, and runs back out.

"Here," he says breathlessly, taking Miss Stubin's hand and carefully, gently, stretching out her curled fingers. He puts a Koosh Ball in the old woman's hands. "That last one looked just like this."

Miss Stubin's face lights up. "I think that's my favorite," she says.

August 2, 2005, 11:11 p.m.

Sam leaves Heather Home and drives the four miles to his house. It's wicked hot out, and he chides Baby mildly for not having air-conditioning. He rolls the windows down, loving the feeling of the hot wind on his face.

11:18 p.m.

He stops at a stop sign on Waverly Road, not far from home, and proceeds through the intersetion.

11:19 p.m.

 _And then he is in a strange house. In a dirty kitchen. A huge, young_

 _monster-man with knives for fingers approaches._

Sam, blind to the road, stomps on the break and flips the gearshift into neutral. He reaches to find the emergency break and pulls, before he becomes more paralyzed. This is a strong one.

 _The monster-man pulls a vinyl-seated chair across the kitchen floor, picks it up, and whirls it around above his head._

But it isn't the emergency break. It's the hood release.

 _And then he lets go of the chair. It sails toward Sam, clipping the ceiling fan._

Sam doesn't know it's the hood.

 _Sam looks around frantically to see what it will hit. Or who._

Sam is numb. His foot slides off the break pedal.

His car rolls off the road.

Slowly.

 _But there is no one else. No one else but the monster-man with finger-knives, and Sam. Until the door opens, and a middle-aged man appears. He walks through Sam. The chair, sailing in slow motion, grows knives from its legs._

The car misses a mailbox.

 _It strikes the middle-aged man in the chest and head. His head issliced clean off and it rolls around on the floor in a circle._

The car comes to rest in a shallow drainage ditch in the front yard of a tiny, unkempt house.

 _Sam stares at the large young man with knives for fingers. He walks to the dead man's head and kicks it like a soccer ball. It crashes loudly through the window and there is a blinding flash of light-_

11:31 p.m.

Sam groans and opens his eyes. His head is against the steering wheel.

He has a cut on his lip that is bleeding. And Baby is decidedly not level. When he can see clearly, he looks out the windows, and when he can move again, he eases his way out his door. He walks around the car, sees that it is not injured, and that he is not stuck. He shuts the hood gently, gets into the car, and backs up slowly.

When he arrives in his driveway, he breathes a sigh of relief, and then memorizes the exact location of the parking break by feel. He sees the keys dangling from the ignition. ' _Duh_ ,' he thinks.

Next time, he will be ready.

Maybe he should have bought an automatic.

He hopes to God it doesn't happen on a highway.

12:46 a.m.

Sam lies awake in bed. Scared.

In the back of his mind, he hears the distinct sound of knives sharpening. The more he tries not to think about whose dream that might have been, the more he thinks about it. He can never drive that street again.

He wonders if he'll end up like his friend Miss Stubin from the nursing home, all alone.

Or dead in a car crash, because of this stupid dream curse.

August 25, 2005

Dean brings in the mail to Sam's. Sam is wearing a T-shirt and boxer shorts. It's hot and humid.

"Schedules are here," Dean says. "Senior year, baby! This is it!" Excitedly, they open their schedules together. They lay them side-by-side on the coffee table and compare.

Their facial expressions go from excitement, to disappointment, and then excitement again.

"So, first period English and fifth period study hall. That's not terrible." Sam says.

"And we have the same lunch," Dean says. "Let me see what Brady has. I'll be right back." Dean gets up to leave.

"You can call him from here, you know," Sam says, rolling his eyes.

"I-I would, but-"

Sam waits for Dean to explain. Then it dawns on him.

"Oh," he says. "I get it. Caller ID. Sheesh, Dean."

Dean looks at his shoes, then slips out.

Sam checks the freezer for ice cream. He eats it out of the carton.

He feels like shit.

September 6, 2005, 7:35 a.m.

Dean and Sam drive separately to school, because Sam has to work at 3 p.m. Sam waves from the window when he hears Dean's car horn beep. ' _This is it,_ ' he thinks.

Sam is only mildly excited to start his senior year of high school.

And he is not at all excited to have study hall right after lunch.

He brushes his teeth and grabs his backpack, checking the mirror briefly before heading out the door. He is stopped by the flashing red lights of her former bus, and he smirks when he sees the noobs all climbing the steps to board it. Most of them are dressed in the styles of five years ago - hand-me-downs, or secondhand thrift clothing. "Get jobs, and get the hell out of South Lawrence," Sam mutters. At least there's strength in numbers.

Baby purrs.

Sam continues when the red lights stop. A block before the "bad" house on Waverly Road, he turns to take a detour. He's not taking any chances. He slows as he sees someone walking toward him along the road, wearing a ratty backpack. At first, Sam doesn't recognize him.

And then, he does.

He looks different.

He's not carrying a skateboard.

"You missed it," Sam says through the open window. "Get in. I'll drive you."

Lucifer eyes him warily. His features have matured. He's wearing eyeglasses, the new cool rimless kind. His jaw is decidedly angular. He looks both thinner and more muscular at the same time. His hair is no longer greasy, but it looks freshly washed. He hesitates, and then opens the passenger door.

"Thanks." His voice is low and gruff. "Jesus," he remarks as he tries to fit his knees inside.

Sam reaches down between his legs. "Grab yours too," he says.

Lucifer raises an eyebrow.

"Your seat adjustor, you ass. We have to pull them together. It's a bench seat. As you can see." They pull, and the seat moves back a notch. Sam checks the clutch to make sure he can still reach. He shifts into first as Lucifer shuts his door.

"You're on the wrong street," he remarks.

"I know that."

"I figured you were lost or something."

"Oh, puhleeze. I-I take a detour. I don't drive on Waverly anymore. I'm superstitious."

Lucifer glances at him and shrugs. "Whatever."

They ride in awkward silence for five minutes, until Sam rolls his eyes inwardly and says, "So. What's your schedule?"

"I have no idea."

"Okaaay..." The conversation fizzles.

After a moment, Lucifer opens his backpack and takes out a sealed envelope. He rips it open as if it's a chore of a great difficulty and looks over his schedule.

"English, math, Spanish, industrial tech, lunch, study hall, government, P.E." He sounds bored.

Sam cringes. "Hmmm. Interesting."

"And yours?" Lucifer says it too politely, as if he is forced to chat with his grandmother.

"It's, ah... actually...," Sam sighs. "... pretty similar to that. Yeah."

Lucifer laughs. "Don't sound so fucking excited, Winchester. I'll let you cheat off my papers."

Sam smiles wryly. "Yeah right! Like I'd want to."

Lucifer looks at him. "And your GPA is?"

"Three point eight." Sam sniffs.

"Well, then, of course you don't need help."

"What's yours?"

Lucifer shifts in the seat and shoves his schedule into his backpack.

"I have no idea."

That was the most Lucifer Angelus had ever spoken to Sam in all the years he'd known him. Combined. Including the three miles on the skateboard.

12:45 p.m.

Sam meets up with Dean in study hall. Seniors have study hall in the library so they can access the books and computers and hopefully do actual work rather than sleep. Sam hopes for the best and finds a table in the far corner of the room.

"How's it going?" Sam asks.

"Decent," Dean says. "The only class I have with Brady is English. Hey, did you see the new guy?"

"What new guy?"

"In English class."

Sam looks puzzled. "I didn't notice."

Dean looks around sneakily. "Oh, shit!" he whispers. "Here he comes."

Sam glances up. Dean is staring at him, not daring to turn around again. _He_ nods in Sam's direction. Sam waves his fingers at him. To Dean, he says, "Oh, you mean him?"

"You did NOT just wave to him."

"To who... er, whom? Yeah, that's it. Whom?"

"The new guy! Aren't you listening to me?" Dean bounces in his chair.

Sam grins innocently. "Watch this." He gets up, walks to the table where the new guy sits, and pulls up a chair across from him so he can see Dean watching.

"I have a question for you," Sam says.

"I thought you didn't need my help," Lucifer replies, rummaging through his backpack.

"It's not that kind."

"Go ahead, then."

"Are you getting a lot of strange looks today, by any chance?"

Lucifer pulls his notebook out of his backpack, takes off his outer button-down shirt, leaving on a loose, white T-shirt. He folds the button-down haphazardly, sets it on top of his backpack, scoots his chair back, and lays his head on the shirt. His newly muscular arms reach around this makeshift pillow.

"I haven't noticed." he says. He takes off his glasses and sets them off to the side.

Sam nods thoughtfully. "I see. So... you don't know what classes you have, you don't know your GPA, you don't notice all the kids drooling over your new look-"

"That's bullshit," Lucifer says, closing his eyes. "So what do you pay attention to?"

He opens his eyes. Lifts his head from his pillow. He looks at Sam for a long time. His eyes are silky sky blue. Sam's never noticed them before.

For a split second, Sam thinks he sees something in them, but then it's gone.

"Pfft. You wouldn't believe me if I told you," Lucifer says.

Sam flashes a crooked smile, shrugs, and shakes his head slightly, feeling warm. "Try me."

Lucifer raises a skeptical eyebrow.

"You know... sometime," Sam says finally. He picks up Lucifer's shirt and refolds it so the buttons turn in. "So you don't get a button impression on your face," he says.

"Thank you," Lucifer says. His eyes don't leave Sam's. He's searching them. His brow furrows.

Sam clears his throat lightly. "So, uh, shall I break the news to Dean that you're not a new guy?"

Lucifer blinks. "What?"

"Half the school thinks you're a new student. Lucifer, come on. You look a lot different from last year..."

The words trail off Sam's tongue and they sound wrong.

Lucifer gives him a confused look.

"What did you call me?"

Sam's stomach lurches. "Um, Lucifer?"

He isn't smiling. "Who do you think I am?"

Maybe Sam's in somebody's weird dream and he doesn't know it.

He panics.

"Oh, God, no," he whispers. Sam stands up abruptly and tries to get past him. He catches his arm.

"Woah, time out," Lucifer says. "Sit."

Tears pool in Sam's eyes. He covers his mouth.

"Jesus, Sam. I'm just playing with your mind a little. I'm sorry.

Hey," he says. He keeps hold of Sam's wrist, lightly.

Sam feels like a fool.

"Come on, Winchester. Look at me, will you? Listen to me."

Sam can't look at him. He sees Dean, half-standing, peering over the bookshelves, a concerned look on his face. Sam waves him away. Dean sits down.

"Sam."

"What, already," he says growing hot. "And will you please let go of me before I call security?"

He drops Sam's wrist like a baked potato.

His eyes widen.

"Forget it." He sighs. "I'm an asshole." Lucifer looks away.

Sam walks back to his table and sits down miserably.

"What was that?" Dean hisses.

Sam looks at him and summons a calm smile. He shakes his head. "Nothing. The new guy just told me... that..." He stalls, pretending to search for a pen. "That, uh, I'm doing the advance math equations completely wrong. I... you know me. I hate to be wrong. Math's my best subject, you know." He pulls out a sheet of paper and opens his math book. "Now I've got to start all over."

"Sheesh, Sam. You looked like he just threatened to kill you or something."

Sam laughs. "As if."

1:30 p.m.

Lucifer tries to catch Sam's eye in government class.

Sam ignores him.

2:20 p.m.

P.E. The students play rotating games of five-on-five basketball.

Sam commits the most egregious foul Lawrence High School has ever seen. When he is able, the new guy stands up and insists it was his fault.

Coach Carter gives Sam a hard look. He returns it, with interest.

2:45 p.m.

Sam dries off hurriedly after his shower and slips into his scrubs for work. The bell rings. He takes his stuff and jumps in his car so he's not lake for work.

8:01 p.m.

Life is blissfully clam at Heather Home tonight. Sam finishes his paperwork and his other duties on the floor early, so he goes to see Miss Stubin. He shuffles his feet and clears his throat so Miss Stubin knows Sam is there.

"It's me, Sam. Are you up for a few chapters of /Jane Eyre/?" Sam asks. Miss Stubin smiles warmly and turns her face towards Sam's voice. "I'd love it, if you have the time."

Sam pulls the visitor chair closer to the bed and begins where they left off last time. He doesn't notice when Miss Stubin drifts off to sleep.

8:24 p.m.

 _Sam is standing on a street called Center in a small town. Everything is black and white, like an old movie. Nearby, a couple strolls arm and arm, window-shopping. Sam follows them. The store windows are filled with simplicity. Saws and hammers. Yarn and material. Baking sheets and metal tins. Dry goods._

 _The couple stops at the corner, and Sam can see that the young woman has been crying. The young man is wearing a military uniform._

 _He pulls the young woman gently around the corner of the building, and they kiss passionately. He touches her breast and asks something, and she shakes her head, no. He tries again, and she moves his hand away. He pulls back. "Please, Martha. Let me make love to you before I go."_

 _The young woman, Martha, begins to say no. Then she turns, and looks at Sam with complete regret in her eyes. "Not even in my dream?" she says._

 _Martha waits for Sam to respond._

 _Sam looks at the young man. He is frozen, momentarily, gazing adoringly at Martha. Martha pleases with her eyes locked on Sam. "Help me, Sam."_

 _Sam, startled, shrugs and nods, and Martha smiles through her tears She turns back to the young man, touches his face, his lips, and nods. They walk through the alley, away from Sam. Sam takes a step to follow them, but he doesn't want to see any more of this dream - it's too intimate. He grips the chair in Miss Stubin's room with all his might, concentrates, and pulls himself back into the nursing home._

It's 8:43 p.m. Sam shakes his head to clear it. Surprised. Slowly, a grin spreads across his face. He did it - he pulled himself out of the dream. And he's not getting sucked back into it. Sam chuckles quietly to himself.

Miss Stubin sleeps peacefully, a smile on her thin, tired lips. It must be nice for poor old Miss Stubin to have a good dream.

Sam leaves the book on the table and exits the room quietly. He turns off the light and closes the door, giving Miss Stubin some intimate time alone with her soldier.

Before he dies.

And she never has the chance again.

September 9, 2005, 12:45 p.m.

"Why didn't you tell me the new guy was Lucifer Angelus?" Dean demands.

Sam looks up from his book. He sits in the library at their usual table. "Because I'm an asshole?" He smiles sweetly.

Dean tries to hold back a laugh. "Yes, you are. I see you're driving him to school."

"Only when he misses the bus," Sam says lightly.

Dean gives him a sly smile. "Yeah, well. Anyways, I made yearbook staff, so I'll be gone a lot during study hall, okay? I gotta go there now for the first meeting."

Sam waves, distracted by the play he's reading for English. "Have fun. Play nice." He slides down in his seat and plops his feet on the chair opposite his. He's reading /Camelot/ in preparation got next months senior English trip to Tulsa, Oklahoma.

Everynow and then he peers over the bookshelves to see if anyone is looking sleepy nearby. He figures he can handle anything outside a twenty-foot radius, unless it's a nightmare, and then the distance jumps dramatically. Luckily, most school-day dreams tend to either be the "falling" dream, the "naked presentation" dream, or something sexual. He can usually get a handle on those without doing a full pass-out-on-the-floor reaction.

It's the paralyzing, shiver-and-shake nightmares that are killing him.

12:55 p.m.

 _The book disappears in front of him. Sam sighs and sets it on the table. He lays his head in his arms and closes his eyes._

 _He is floating. /'Not the falling dream again,'/ he thinks. He is sick to death of the falling dream._

 _The scene changes immediately. Now, Sam is outside. It's dark. He's alone, behind a shed, but he can hear muffled voices. He's never been alone before, and he doesn't know how people can have dreams they are not in. He is curious. He watches nervously, hoping this isn't somebody's nightmare about to explode through the wall of the shed, or from the bushes._

 _From around the corner comes a hulking, monstrous figure, outlined by the moonlight. It thrashes its arms through the bushes and lifts its hands to the sky, letting out a horrible yell. Sam feels his fingers going numb. He tries to get out, but he can't._

 _The figure's long fingers glint in the moonlight. Sam leans back against the barn. He is shaking. The grotesque figure sharpens its knife-fingers in each other. The sound is deafening._

 _Sam, against the barn, squeaks._

 _The figure wheels around. It sees him._

 _Approaches him._

 _He has seen this character before. Right before he and Baby ended up in a ditch._

 _Sam stands up, tries to run. But his legs won't move._

 _The figure's face is furious, but he has stopped sharpening his knives. He's five feet away, and Sam closes his eyes. 'Nothing can hurt me,' he tries to tell himself._

 _When he opens his eyes, it is daylight. He is still behind the barn. And the horrid, managing figure has turned into a normal, human young man._

 _It's Lucifer Angelus._

 _A second Sam steps out from Sam's body and walks to Lucifer, unafraid._

 _Sam stays back against the barn._

 _Lucifer touches the second Sam's face._

 _He leans in._

 _He kisses Sam._

 _Sam kisses him back._

 _Lucifer steps out of the embrace and looks at the Sam against the barn wall. Tears fall down his cheeks._

 _"Help me," he says._

1:35 p.m.

The bell rings. Sam feels the fog lifting, but he cannot move. Not yet. He needs a minute.

1:36 p.m.

Make that two minutes.

1:37 p.m.

When Sam feels the hand on his shoulder, he jumps.

A mile, a foot, an inch... he doesn't know.

He looks up.

"Ready?" Lucifer says. "Didn't know if you heard the bell."

Sam stares at him.

"You okay, Winchester?"

Sam nods and grabs his books. "Yeah." His voice is not completely back yet. He clears his throat. "Yes," he says firmly. "Are you? You have a dent in your cheek." He smiles shakily.

"Fell asleep on my book."

"I figured."

"You too, huh?"

"I, uh, must've been really tired, I guess."

"You look freaked. Did you have a bad dream or something?"

Sam looks at him as they walk through the crowded hall to government class. Lucifer slips his hand onto the small of Sam's back so they stay together as they talk.

"Not exactly," Sam says slowly. His eyes narrow. "Did you?" The words come out of his mouth like gunshots.

Lucifer turns sharply into the doorway as the bell rings and he sees the look on Sam's face. He stops in his tracks. His eyes narrow as they search Sam's face. Sam can see that his eyes are puzzled. Lucifer's face flushes slightly, but Sam's not sure why.

The teacher comes in and shoos them to their seats.

Sam looks over his shoulder, two rows back and toward the middle of the room.

Lucifer is still staring at him, looking incredibly puzzled. He shakes his head just slightly.

Sam looks at the chalkboard. Not seeing it. Just wondering. Wondering what the hell is wrong with him. And what is wrong with Lucifer, that he has dreams like that. Does he know? Did he see Sam in that one?

2:03 p.m.

A wad of paper lands on Sam's desk. He jumps and slowly looks over to Lucifer. He is slumped in his seat, dooing on his notebook, looking a little too innocent.

Sam opens the paper.

Smooths it out.

 _Yeah, maybe..._ _(?)_

That's what it says.

September 29, 2005 2:55 p.m.

Leaning against the hood of his car is the lanky, long-legged figure of Lucifer Angelus. The one who dreams about monsters, and kissing Sam all in the same dream. His hair is wet.

"Hey," Sam says lightly. His hair is wet too.

"Why are you avoiding me?"

Sam sighs. "Am I?" He knows it sounds fake.

He doesn't answer.

Sam gets in the car.

Starts the engine.

Pulls out of the parking space.

Lucifer stands there, looking. Arms folded across his chest. His lips are concerned.

Same and over and rolls down the window. "Get in. You've missed the bus by now."

Lucifer's expression doesn't change.

He doesn't move.

Sam hesitates, one more minute.

Lucifer turns and starts walking toward home. Sam watches him, sighs exasperatedly, and guns it. His tires squeal around the corner. ' _Idiot._ '

October 10, 2005, 4:57 a.m.

 _On a thin piece of paper in the cave if his own dream, Sam writes:_

I keep to myself.

I have to.

Because if what I know about you.

 _And then he crumpled it up, lights a match, and turns it into ash. The charcoaled remains shrivel up and the wind takes them down the street, across the yards. To Lucifer's house. He steps on them as he saunters to catch the bus. The ash is softer than the crisp Halloween leaves that gather and huddle around the corners of his front step. Under the weight of his doorstep, the ash disintegrates. The wind swallows it._

 _Gone._

7:15 a.m.

Sam wakes up, running late for school. He blinks.

He has never had a dream before - not that he can remember.

He only has everyone else's.

At least he can sleep during his.

He gives his shaggy brown hair a lesson with a wet comb, brushes his teeth at top speed, shoves two dollars in the front pocket of his jeans, and grabs his backpack, searching wildly for his keys. They are on the kitchen table. He grabs them, saying goodbye to his pajama-clad father, who stands at the sink eating a Pop-Tart and looking aimlessly out the window.

"I'm late," Sam says.

His father doesn't respond.

Sam lets the door slam, but not angrily. Hurriedly. He climbs into the Impala and zooms to Lawrence High School. He's ten long strides from his English classroom when the bell rings, just like half the class. Sliding into his desk, the back seat in the row nearest the door, he mouses unnoticed through the class, except for a sleepy grin from Dean. Sam stealthily finishes his math assignment as the teacher drones on about the upcoming weekend senior trip to Tulsa.

Lucifer's back is to him. Sam has the urge to touch his hair. If Sam could reach him, he might. But then Sam shakes his head at himself. He is very confused over his feelings about Lucifer. It's more bizarre than flattering to know Lucifer dreams about him. Especially when he does it after being that horrid monster-man. He may even admit to being a little afraid of Lucifer.

And now Sam knows where he lives.

Just two blocks from him.

In a tiny house on Waverly Road.

"Your room assignments," Mr. Purcell drones, waving fluorescent yellow papers like sun rays above his head before tossing handfuls at the first person in each row. "No changes allowed, so don't even try."

Sam looks up as titters and groans fill the room. The boy in front of him doesn't turn around to hand him the paper. He tosses it over his shoulder. It floats, hovers, and slides off the slick laminate desk before Sam can grab it, whooshing and sticking under Lucifer Angelus' shoe. He kicks it toward Sam without acknowledgement.

The list places Sam in a room with three rich snobs from the rich Hill section of North Lawrence: Brady Thompson, who hates him, Brady's friend Shane Wilder, who hates him by default, and the captain of the boys' soccer team, Blake Jackson, who pretends Sam doesn't exist. Sam sighs inwardly. He'll have to sleep on the bus on the way.

But he's curious to know if, after all these years, Brady still dreams about Dean with a ginormous dick.


	4. Oh, Tulsa

**OH, TULSA**

October 14, 2005, 3:30 a.m.

Sam meets Dean under the black sky in Dean's driveway. They offer little greeting besides sleepy grins, and Sam climbs into the passenger seat of Dean's Tracer. They drive in silent darkness to school. Sam's just glad he doesn't have to drive at this hour.

They pass Lucifer Angelus when they get close to school. He's walking. Dean slows and stops, rolls down the window, and asks if he wants a ride, but Lucifer waves him off with a grin. "I'm almost there," he says. Up ahead, the Greyhound bus gleams under the schools parking lot lights.

Sam looks at Lucifer. He catches Sam's eye briefly and looks down.

Sam feels like shit.

Lucifer and Sam's non-fight in the parking lot began a long series of non-fights. Not only do they not fight, they no longer speak.

But Sam sees him, kisses him, in his library dreams.

Sam also sees him, a raging maniac. A scarred-faced lunatic with knife-fingers, who repetitively stabs, slices, and beheads one middle-aged man, over and over and over again. Sam feels only slight relief that he doesn't kill anyone else.

Not yet, anyway.

Not Sam, so far.

And every time Lucifer dreams it, the bell rings before Sam can figure out how to help him. Help him do what? Help him, how? Sam has no idea. He has no power. Why do all these people ask him for help? He can't do it.

Just.

Can't.

Do it.

But he sure doesn't get much done in study hall these days.

3:55 a.m.

The oversleepers, latecomers, and don't-give-a-shitters have either arrived or been written off by the teacher chaperones. Dean sits with Brady, near the front.

Sam sits in the last row on the right, next to the window. As far away from everyone as he can get. He stows his overnight bag in the compartment above his seat. He is glad to note that the restroom is at the front of the bus. He twists the overhead TV monitor so it's blue glow doesn't blind him, and puts his seat back. It only goes a little way before it hits the back wall.

Before the bus is loaded, Sam is dozing.

4:35 a.m.

 _He is jarred awake by a splash of cold water in his face. He's in a lake, fully clothed. He shivers. A boy named Kyle is yelling as he falls from the sky above Sam, over and over and over, until he finally lands in the water. But Kyle can't swim. Sam feels his fingers growing numb, and he kicks out with his feet, trying to stop it, trying to get out._

And then it's done.

Sam blinks, and sits up, startled. A shadowy face appears above the seat in front of him. "What the fuck?" Says Kyle. "Do you mind?"

"Sorry," Sam whispers. His heart races. The drowning dreams are the worst. Well, almost.

He hears a whisper in his ear as he struggles to see clearly. "You okay, Winchester?" Lucifer slips his arm around Sam. He sounds worried. "You're shivering. Did you just have a seizure or something? You want me to stop the bus?"

Sam looks at him. "Oh, hey." His voice is scratchy. "I didn't know you were there. Um..." He closed his eyes. Tries to think. Holds up a weak finger, letting Lucifer know he needs a moment. But he feels the next one coming already. He doesn't have much time. And he has to prepare Lucifer. He doesn't have a choice.

"Lucifer. Do not freak if -when- I do that again, okay? Do NOT stop the bus. Do NOT tell a teacher, oh God, no. No matter what." He grips the armrests and fights to keep his vision. "Can you trust me? Trust me and just let it happen?"

The pain of concentration is excruciating. He is cringing, holding his head. "Oh, fuckity-fuck!" He yells in a whisper. "This was a stupid, stupid idea for me to come on this trip. Please, Lucifer. Help me. Don't let... anyone... gah!... see me."

Lucifer is gawking at Sam. "Okay," he says. "Okay, Jesus."

But Sam is gone.

The dreams pelt him, from all directions, without ceasing. Sam is on sensory overload. It's his own physical, mental, emotional, three-hour nightmare.

7:48 a.m.

Sam opens his eyes. Someone is talking on a microphone.

When the fog fades and he can see again, finally, Lucifer is staring at him. Lucifer's eyes, his hair, are wild. His face is white. He's holding Sam around the shoulders.

Gripping Sam, is more like it.

Sam feels like crying, and he does, a little. He closes his eyes and doesn't move. Can't move. The tears leak out. Lucifer wipes Sam's cheeks gently with his thumb.

That makes Sam cry harder.

8:15 a.m.

The bus stops. They are parked in a McDonalds parking lot. Everyone files off the bus. Everyone except Sam and Lucifer.

"Go get some food," Sam urges in a tired whisper. His voice is still not back.

"No."

"Seriously. I'll be okay, now that everyone's...gone."

"Sam."

"Will you go get me a breakfast sandwich then?"

He's still breathing hard. "I need to eat. Something. Anything. There's money in my right-hand coat pocket." The effort to move his arm seems too difficult.

Lucifer looks at Sam. His eyes are weary. Bleary. He removes his glasses and pinches the bridge if his nose, then rubs his eyes. He sighs deeply. "You sure you'll be okay? I'll be back in five minutes or less." He looks unwilling to leave Sam.

Sam smiles a tired half smile. "I'll be fine. Please. I don't think I can stand up if I don't get something to eat soon. That was much, much worse than I expected."

Lucifer hesitates, and then removes his arm from behind Sam's shoulders. "I'll be back." He sprints off the bus. Sam watches him out the window. He runs through the empty drive-through lane and taps on the microphone. Sam smiles. What a dork.

He returns with a bag full of breakfast sandwiches, several orders of hash browns, coffee, orange juice, milk, and a chocolate shake. "I wasn't sure what you'd want," he says.

Sam struggles a little and sits up. He pours the juice down his throat and swallows until it's gone. He does the same with the milk.

"Can you chug beer like that?"

Sam smiles, grateful he isn't asking questions about his strange behavior. "I've never tried it with beer."

"That's probably wise."

"Have you?" Sam takes a bite of a sandwich.

"I don't really drink."

"Not even a little, here and there?"

"Nope."

Sam looks at him. "I thought you were a partier. Drugs?"

Lucifer hesitates a split second. "Nada."

"Wow. Well, you sure looked like hell for a couple years."

Lucifer is quiet. He smiles politely. "Thank you." He nods at Sam's sandwich.

"Sorry."

Lucifer stares at the seat in front of then while Sam eats. Sam hands him a sandwich and he takes it, unwraps it, and eats it slowly. They eat in silence.

Sam belches loudly.

Lucifer looks at him. Grins, "Jesus, Winchester. You should enter a contest."

They share the chocolate shake.

8:35 a.m.

The other students board the bus in twos and threes. Some stand outside, sucking on cigarettes.

8:41 a.m.

The bus begins to move again.

"Now what?" asks Lucifer. He has a look of concern around his eyes. He combs his hair with his fingers.

"If it happens again, don't worry." Sam shrugs helplessly. "I don't know what to tell you - I promise I'll explain this all when I can. Where are we, by the way?"

"We're getting close."

Sam rummages around in his pocket and produces a ten-dollar bill. "For breakfast," he says.

Lucifer shakes his head and pushes it away. "Let me think of this as our first date, will you?"

Sam looks at him for a long moment. Feels his stomach flip. "Okay," he whispers.

Lucifer touches his cheek. "You look exhausted. Can you sleep?"

"Until somebody else does, I suppose."

Lucifer's eyes turn weary again. "What does that mean, Sam?" He puts his arm around Sam's shoulders. Sam rests his head against him and doesn't answer. In minutes, Sam is sleeping gently. Lucifer takes Sam's hand with his free hand and strings their fingers together. Looks at Sam's hands, and lays his cheek against Sam's hair. After a while, he is a sleep too.

9:16 a.m.

 _Sam is outside, in the dark. He looks behind him, and sees the shed is there. He walks around the shed this time, to see him coming._

 _He looks normal - not a monster - standing at the back door of a house, looking in. Then he slams the door and marches through the dry, yellow grass. The middle-aged man bursts out the door after him, yelling, standing on the step. He carried a rectangular can in one hand, a beer and a cigarette in the other. He screams at Lucifer._

 _Lucifer turns to face him. The man charges and Lucifer stands there, frozen. Waiting for the man to approach him._

 _The man punches Lucifer in the face and he goes down. He squirms on his back like a scared crab, trying to get away. The man points and squeezes the rectangular can, and liquid hits Lucifer's shorts and shirt._

 _Then._

 _The man flicks his cigarette at Lucifer._

 _Lucifer ignites._

 _Flops around on the ground in flames._

 _Screaming, like a poor, tortured baby bunny._

 _And then Lucifer transforms. He becomes a monster, and the fire is gone. His fingers grow knives. His body grows like the Hulk._

 _Sam watches all this from around the corner of the shed. He doesn't want to see it. No more of it. Feeling so sick, so horrible for witnessing it. He turns around abruptly._

 _Standing behind him, watching him in horror, is Lucifer._

 _The second._

9:43 a.m.

Sam waits an eternity for his sight to clear. For the feeling to come back. He sits up, frantic. Sam reaches for him.

Lucifer is leaning over, his head in his hands.

He is shaking.

He turns to Sam, his face enraged.

His voice is raspy. "What the fuck is wrong with you!?"

Sam doesn't know what to say.

Lucifer's silent anger shakes the seats.

10:05 a.m.

Lucifer doesn't speak until they arrive in Tulsa. And then all he says is a harsh "good luck." He gets off the bus and heads for his hotel room.

Sam watches him go.

He closes his eyes, then opens them again, and follows his roommates to their room.

Once inside, they don't acknowledge each other.

Sam is quite good with that.

2:00 p.m.

The students meet in the lobby. _Camelot_ starts in thirty minutes.

Sam boards the bus, exhausted, and sits in the back row again.

Lucifer doesn't show up.

2:33 p.m.

The play begins. Sam excuses himself from his orchestra seat and finds a spot in the near-empty balcony. He sleeps soundly up there for three hours, awaking in the closing scene. He slips back down to the orchestra seats and follows the others back to the bus.

6:01 p.m.

The bus stops at Pizza Hut. They have one hour to eat before going back to the evening play.

Sam grabs a personal pan to go, eats it on the bus and sleeps. Sleeps right through the play, in his backseat spot.

Nobody seems to notice he didn't get off the bus.

11:33 p.m.

The bus arrived, most kids exhausted, back at the hotel. Sam falls into bed. He is numb, but not from anyone's dream. Not this time. He thinks about Lucifer. Cries silently in his pillow in the dark room. The heat register hums loudly. Blake, the captain of the men's soccer team, collapses on the covers next to him. They don't speak. They hover at the edges of their bed.

October 15, 2005 1:04 a.m. - 6:48 a.m.

 _Sam jumps from one dream to another._

 _Blake dreams about making the U.S. men's soccer team, and meeting the legendary William Looby, even though he's retired. Big surprise – this dream could totally be an episode of_ Hannah Montana _. Just when Sam wonders if Blake has even the slightest bit of depth to him, Blake's dream turns to Kyle, who sat in front of Sam on the bus. Interesting combo, there. Sam's intrigued._

 _Until the switch to Brady._

 _Brady, no surprise, has a three-way sex party going on with Shane Wilder, who is in bed next to him, and with Dean. The sex is normal at first, then unbelievably tacky, in Sam's opinion. The bodies of Dean and Shane are, to use a crass phrase, blown out of proportion. Sam manages for the first time in someone else's dream to turn away._

 _Sam counts it as a major victory._

 _And then there's Shane._

 _Shane dreams about Lucifer Angelus._

 _A lot._

 _And in a lot of different ways._

By morning, Sam hates Shane with all his heart. And he has very dark circles under his eyes.

8:08 a.m.

Shane, Brady, and Blake head down to breakfast. The matinee is at 10:00.

"See you on the bus," Sam says, even though he is starving. The other boys don't bother to answer. Sam rolls his eyes.

He takes a shower, towels his hair dry, and falls back into the bed. He sets the alarm for noon. The bus will be back for luggage, and the students who didn't elect to take in a third play, at 1 pm.

8:34 a.m.

 _Sam dreams for the second time in his life. He dreams that he is alone, drowning in a dark lake, and Lucifer is on the shore with a rope, but he won't throw it to him. He waves frantically to Lucifer, and Lucifer can't see him. Sam slips under the water slowly. Under the water, he sees others like him. Babies, children, teens, adults. All of them floating just under the surface of the water, no one able to help._

 _It's because they're all dead._

 _Their eyes bulge._

He is screaming when the alarm goes off. His hair has dried in tangles. He can't see beyond it.

There is an urgent knock on the door.

And it's him.

He's holding a bag of food.

Looking mournful.

He pushes past Sam into the room, closes the door and locks it, takes Sam's hand, and holds him. He is pleading. "I don't understand," he says. "I just don't understand. Why did you do that to me?" He's broken.

And so is Sam. "I can explain," Sam says. And he buries his face in Lucifer's shirt and cries. "Just get me home."

They fall on the bed, and they just hold each other quietly.

That's all they do.

And then, it's time to go home.

2:00 p.m.

Sam and Lucifer are in the back seats again. Dean and Brady sit in front of them. Across the aisle, Blake and Kyle are making out. Sam reminds himself to start taking bets on these things.

In front of Blake and Kyle is Shane, or at least her baggage. Shane appears to be furiously ignoring Sam. He tries to strike up a conversation with Lucifer by sitting on the aisle floor, next to him.

Lucifer is cool and mildly disinterested.

That makes Shane try harder.

Dean and Brady turn around in their seats to chat. Lucifer makes small talk and jokes, while Sam looks out the window. He slips his hand into Sam's.

The other boys notice.

Dean winks.

Brady looks at Dean with burning eyes.

Shane shifts in the aisle and leans against Lucifer's leg.

At the front of the bus, kids are roaming around and laughing, singing, chattering. Awake and buzzing. Sam slips into a graceful coma, his head propped up against the window.

7:31 p.m.

They are back at Lawrence High School. Lucifer shakes Sam awake, gently. He sits up, wondering where he is. Lucifer grins at him. "You made it," he whispers. Lucifer gathers their bags and follows Sam off the bus. He walks over to Dean's car.

"Come on, Lucifer," Dean says. "Let me give you a ride, at least. Unless you want Shane to - hey, here he comes now." Dean titters, his eyes dancing.

Lucifer's eyes grow wide. He slips into the backseat of Dean's car without a word. "Get me outta here. Fuckin' creepy football players."

Dean laughs. He pulls out of the parking lot and eases onto the road ahead of the pack, and turns to Lucifer.

"Waverly. Two blocks straight east of your house. But I'll walk from Sam's, if you don't mind. Sam had a superstition about my street."

"What the hell?" Dean snorts.

Sam laughs. "Nothing! Shut up, Luce."

Dean pulls into Sam's driveway. It's cool outside. Crisp. The harvest moon shines orange on Baby's roof in the Winchester driveway. Dean grabs his things and yawns. "I'm turning in. Catch you guys later." He clips to his front door and lets himself in, waving as he closes the screen door.

Sam takes his bag and waves to dean. He looks at Lucifer. It feels awkward, now that they're at Sam's front yard. They walk to his door.

"Can you come in for a bit?" Sam asks, trying not to sound anxious.

"Sure," Lucifer says, his voice relieved. "I, uh, figure we have some things to talk about. Are the 'rents home?"

"My father's probably passed out in his bedroom. That's it, just me and him."

"Cool," he says, but he gives Sam an understanding look.

They go inside. There is no sign of Sam's father, except for an empty fifth of vodka on the kitchen counter and a sink full of dishes. Sam throws the bottle in the trash. "Sorry about the mess," he says in a low voice. He is embarrassed. The house was spotless when he left it yesterday morning.

"Forget about it. We can clean it up later, if you want."

Sam waves his hand at the living room. "Well. This is it," he says.

"You sleep out here, huh?" He isn't teasing.

"No, I have a bedroom. Come." Sam shows him. It's sparse and neat,

"Nice," he says. He glances at the bed, and then abruptly turns around and they walk back to the living room.

"Hungry?"

"My stomach's growling," Lucifer says.

"Let me see if we have anything." Sam searches the kitchen cupboards and refrigerator and comes up empty-handed. "Good grief," he says finally. "I'm sorry." He turns around. "We got nothin'."

Lucifer's been watching him, he realizes.

"Maybe we could get a pizza."

"Sounds good."

"You want to go out?"

Sam sighs and scratches his head. "Not really."

"Good, let's order delivery."

Sam finds the number for Fred's Pizza and Grinders and orders. "Thirty minutes."

Lucifer tosses a twenty-dollar bill on the coffee table and sits down.

"Luce."

"Yes."

"What is that?"

"It's twenty dollars, Winchester."

Sam sighs. "Let's be truthful with each other here, mmmkay?"

"Of course. Our whole relationship is based on it. Right?" He's smiling sardonically, and looks down.

Sam cringes as the words hang ominously in the room. "Look, I'm sorry," he begins. "I have a lot of explaining to do. But I know you don't have any more money to spare than I do. So how about I pay for this?"

"No. Next question."

Sam sits down next to Lucifer. Shakes his head. "Fine," he says, giving up. He draws his legs up under him and turns to face Lucifer.

"Okay," Sam continues. "How did you get into the dream twice?" He looks away, and then back to Sam.

"Well, let's jump right into it, then."

"I guess."

"All right ... uh ... I guess the answer is, I have No. Fucking. , and just let me know when it's my turn to ask a few questions. Because I'd like to know how the hell you. Got into. My dream. Hello."

Sam blushes. "Some of your dreams are kind of great."

"Oh, really." Lucifer leans forward and catches Sam's chin. Catches him by surprise. Lucifer pulls him toward himself and traces Sam's cheekbone with his thumb. And then, he puts his lips on Sam's.

Sam falls into the kiss. He closes his eyes and slips his hand to Lucifer's shoulder. They explore the kiss for a moment, sweetly. Lucifer digs his fingers into Sam's hair and pulls him closer. But before it grows any stronger, Sam pulls away. He feels like his limbs are rubber.

"Shit," he sputters. "You... you..."

Lucifer smiles lazily, his lips still wet. "Yes?"

"You kiss better than I imagined. Even in-"

Lucifer blinks. "No," he says. "No, no, no. Don't even tell me you've been there."

Sam bites his lip. "Well, maybe if you stopped sleeping during study hall, I wouldn't have a clue."

"Good god!" He says. "Is nothing sacred? Sheesh." He turns away, embarrassed. "Maybe you should start from the beginning."

Sam sighs and leans back against the couch. It was like reliving the dreams. Again.

"The short version? I get sucked into peoples dreams. I can't help it. I can't stop it. It's driving me crazy."

Lucifer gives him a long look. "Okay, um, how? That's just bizarre."

"I don't know."

"Is this a recent thing?"

"No. The first one I remember, I was eight."

"So in that dream, /my/ dream, where I'm standing behind you, watching myself ... in ..." He holds his head. "Okay, so that's how you see the dreams, right? Like I saw mine. While I was dreaming it. Ughh." He rubs his temples.

"That was weird, huh," Sam says softly. "I know this is really weird. I'm sorry."

There's a knock at the door. Sam jumps up, relieved. He grabs the twenty and goes to answer it.

He sets the pizza and two-liter of Pepsi for Lucifer on the coffee table and goes to the kitchen for a beer, glasses, napkins, and paper plates. He pours the Pepsi for Lucifer and clips open the beer. He takes a sip as Lucifer grabs some pizza.

"Now. Tell me what else you've seen in my dreams, before I get really paranoid."

"Okay," Sam says, suddenly feeling a bit shy. He takes another sip and begins. "We're behind that shed or barn of some sort. Is that your backyard?"

Lucifer nods, chewing.

"Up until yesterday, I've seen you as the monster-man-thing" – he cringes, not sure what to name it - "that monster in the house – the kitchen. With the chair. That one was purely coincidental - I didn't even know it was you dreaming it. Not until later. It was sort of a drive-by thing."

Lucifer closes his eyes, cringes, and sets his pizza down on the plate. "That was you," says slowly. "I knew I'd seen your car before. I thought you were... someone else." He pauses, lost in thought. "The yard - oh, God - your so-called-superstition. Damn. So-" he sits up, hands paused in midair, eyes closed. Thinking. Processing.

And then he turns and stares at Sam. "You could have totally crashed."

"I don't think anybody saw me."

"The headlights - your headlights. That's what woke me up. They were shining in my window... Jesus Christ, Sam."

"Your bedroom window must have been open. Otherwise, it wouldn't have

happened. I think. I had no idea it was your house."

Lucifer sits back, shaking his head slightly as he puts the pieces together. "Okay," he says. "Get to the good part before I completely lose my appetite."

"Behind the shed. You walk up to me. Touch my face. Kiss me. I kiss you back."

He's silent.

"That's it," Sam says.

Lucifer regards him carefully. "That's it?"

"Yes. I swear. I mean, it was a good kiss, though."

Lucifer nods, lost in thought. "Damn bell always rings then, doesn't it," Sam smiles. "Yeah." He pauses, wondering if he should mention the part where Lucifer asks him to help him, but Lucifer's on to the next thing.

"So when I found you on the desk in the library a few weeks ago, and it took you a while to sit up... what was that? You weren't asleep, were you?"

"No."

"That was a bad one?"

"Yeah. Real bad."

Lucifer puts his head in his hands and takes off his glasses. He rubs his eyes. "Jesus," he says. "I remember that one." He keeps his head down, and Sam waits. "So that's why you said... when I asked you if you had a bad dream," he murmurs.

"I... I wanted to know if you knew I was there, watching. Even when people talk to me in their dreams, no one seems to remember that part. No one ever mentions it, anyway."

"I don't recall ever seeing you there, or talking to you... except when I'm actually dreaming about you," he muses. "Sam," he says abruptly. "What if I don't want you to see it?"

Sam grabs a slice of pizza. "I'm working hard, trying to bust my way out of them - the dreams. I don't want to be a voyeur - seriously, I can't help it. It's almost impossible. So far, anyway. But I'm making a little progress. Slowly." He pauses. "If you don't want me to see, I guess, don't sleep in the same room as me."

He looks at Sam with a sly smile. "But I'm known for sleeping in school. It's my shtick."

"You can change your schedule. Or I can change mine. I'll do whatever you want." Sam looks at the I eaten pizza and sets his plate down. He is miserable.

"Whatever I want," Lucifer says.

"Yes."

"I'm afraid you haven't been privy to that dream yet."

Sam looks at him. He's looking at Sam, and Sam grows warm. "Maybe I'd rather experience that firsthand," he says lightly.

"Mmmm." Lucifer take a sip of his soda. "But before this goes off track... What the hell is wrong with you?"

Sam's silent. Not looking at him.

"And," he says, "Jesus. It just occurred to me why you freaked when I pretended I wasn't me. You must be a freaking mess, Winchester." He tugs Sam's arm, and Sam falls back on the couch toward him. He kisses the top of Sam's head. "I can't begin to tell you how bad I felt about that."

"It's cool," Sam says. "Sorry about the flagrant foul," he adds. "S'all right. I was wearing a cup." He twirls a strand of Sam's hair with his finger. "So, when do you sleep, like, normally?"

Sam smiles ruefully. "Normally, I sleep fine, if I'm alone in a room. When I was thirteen, I finally asked my father if he would do me the favor of passing out in his bedroom, rather than in here. There's something about a closed door that blocks it." He pauses.

"But what happens, exactly?"

Sam closes his eyes. "My vision goes first. I can't see around me. I'm trapped. If it's a bad dream, a nightmare, I guess I start to shake and my fingers go numb first, then my feet, and the worse the nightmare is, the more paralyzed I become."

Lucifer looks at him. "Sam," he says softly.

"Yes." 

He strokes Sam's hair. "I thought you were dying. You shake, you spasm, your eyes roll back in your head. I was ready to steal the nearest cell phone, stick a wallet in your mouth, and call 911."

Sam is silent for a long time. "It's not as bad as it looks."

"You're lying."

Sam looks at him. "Yes," he says. "I suppose I am."

"Who else knows? Your father?"

He looks at his plate of uneaten pizza. Shakes his head. "Nobody. Not even him."

"You haven't been to a doctor about it or anything?"

"No. Not really. Not for help."

Lucifer throws his hands in the air. "Why?" His voice is incredulous.

And then, suddenly, he knows why. "Sorry," he says.

Sam doesn't answer. He's thinking. Thinking hard.

"You know, nobody's ever gone there with me, like you did." His voice is soft, musing. He gives Lucifer a sidelong glance. "I don't understand that part. How did you get there too?"

"I don't know. All of a sudden it was like I had two different angles to watch from: one of them as an observer, the other as a participant. Like virtual reality picture-in-picture or something." 

"And don't even tell me you'd believe a word of this if you hadn't come through with me."

He nods soberly. "You're right, Winchester."

It's 10:21 p.m. when Lucifer says goodnight at the door. He leans against the frame, and Sam kisses him lightly on the lips. He hops off the step and starts walking home, but turns back in the driveway. "Hey, can I see you tomorrow night? Sometime around nine or ten?"

Sam nods smiling. "I'll be here. Just let yourself in - Dean always does too. It's cool."


End file.
